Chapter 55

Faye

I wake up to regret and jet lag. But mostly regret.

The second my eyes crack open, my body screams at me to go back to sleep. The soft, luxurious sheets of The Balmoral Hotel are practically pleading with me to stay. The weight of the comforter is perfect, the bed is too good to be abandoned, and I swear—if I wasn't here as a responsible teacher, I'd sleep in until noon without a second thought.

But no.

Because I'm a teacher.

Which means, despite my entire soul wanting to rot in bed, I have to get up.

I groan, rolling onto my stomach, face smushed into the pillow. Maybe if I just lie here long enough, the universe will magically cancel school responsibilities, and I can enjoy this five-star hotel the way it was meant to be enjoyed.

For sleep. And peace. And absolutely zero teenagers buzzing around like caffeinated squirrels at 8 AM.

I peek at my phone–6:42 AM. I groan again, dramatically this time, as if someone is forcing me to march toward my own execution.

Why do I do this to myself? Why did I agree to chaperone a bunch of hyperactive, hormone-ridden high schoolers on a school trip overseas? What am I gaining from this?

Suffering.

That's what.

I could be at home, wrapped in my blanket, having a proper cup of coffee that doesn't taste like hotel-machine disappointment. I could be relaxing.

But no.

Instead, I have to be an adult. Professional. A role model.

I hate it here.

I shove the pillow over my face and scream internally. Then, finally, I muster up the willpower to move.

I throw off the covers with the grace of a zombie, dragging myself out of bed like I just lost the will to live. With a heavy sigh, I trudge toward the bathroom, grumbling under my breath about how much I hate morning responsibilities.

I flick on the light, squinting at my own reflection in the mirror.

Oh. God. I look as dead inside as I feel.

Dark circles. Messy hair. The undeniable exhaustion of an educator who regrets every life choice that led to this moment.

I lean forward, gripping the sink. "You did this to yourself," I mutter at my reflection.

The reflection does not disagree.

With another heavy sigh, I start my morning routine, desperately trying to look like I actually have my life together.

By the time I'm dressed semi-presentably in a black sweater and black slacks, I almost feel human.

Almost.

I make my way toward the hotel room door, bracing myself for the onslaught of teenage energy waiting outside.

I inhale. I exhale. I tell myself, You can do this, Faye. You're an adult. You are a capable woman.

And then—just as I reach for the door handle—my phone buzzes.

I glance at the screen. A message from Yoko.

Suddenly, the weight of my exhaustion lightens. A small smile tugs at my lips as I unlock my phone.

Yoko

Good morning Ms Peraya.

Yoko

Are you awake? Or still dying?

I chuckle, leaning against the door.

Faye

Barely awake.

Faye

Currently suffering.

Faye

Why are you up so early?

A few seconds later, my phone buzzes again.

Yoko

Because we have to be, remember? School trip, exploring, you know? All that riveting school trip stuff?

Faye

Honestly, I don't recall signing up for this level of pain.

Yoko

Too late to back out now, babe.

Faye

I hate it here.

Yoko

But at least you have me? :)

I stare at the text, warmth settling in my chest.

Faye

Fine, you're my only saving grace.

Yoko

I know.

I shake my head, exhaling softly. God, she kills me. But hey, maybe–just maybe–this trip won't be so bad after all.

I grab my brown trench coat, slipping it over my sweater, then slide into my shoes with the speed of someone desperate to get caffeine into their bloodstream before they cease to function entirely.

Because let's be honest—I need all the help I can get to survive today.

Literary site visits. Museum tours. Historic bookstores. And, of course, a visit to my own Alma Mater, the University of Edinburgh.

Which means nostalgia. Which means emotion. Which means having to listen to students pretend to care while secretly wanting to be anywhere else.

In other words, an exhausting day ahead.

I step out of my room, making my way down to the hotel lobby for a quick breakfast. And that's where my morning takes a turn for the worse.

Because the moment I step into the breakfast lounge, I hear the voice. Too enthusiastic. Too chatty. Too... there.

"Oh, Faye! Good morning!"

I internally groan before I even turn around.

Ms. Taylor.

Why is she so energetic this early? Is she immune to jet lag? Has she been genetically modified to function at inhuman levels of cheerfulness?

I glance at her, offering the most half-hearted, exhausted smile known to mankind. "Morning."

She immediately starts talking. And I mean talking.

I barely make it to the coffee station before she's launching into a full itinerary breakdown like we're in some executive board meeting.

"So! Today's schedule—first, we'll be visiting The Writers' Museum," she announces, following me as I pour my coffee. "You know, the one dedicated to Robert Burns, Sir Walter Scott, and Robert Louis Stevenson? Should be great for the students!"

I nod absentmindedly, trying to focus, but my brain is so fried I can barely process half of what she's saying.

She continues. "Then, after that, we'll be heading to Armchair Books, one of those charming secondhand bookshops—so vintage, I just love it! Then we'll grab lunch before our highlight of the day—"

I already know what's coming.

"The University of Edinburgh!" she beams. "Your Alma Mater! You must be so excited to show the students around."

I blink, sipping my coffee.

Excited? Hmm. I mean, sure—it's my university, but I also spent most of my student years being a brooding literature nerd who barely socialized unless necessary.

I'm more interested in how Yoko's going to react to seeing the places I spent years studying, writing, and probably dying inside from academic pressure.

Speaking of Yoko...

I absentmindedly hum to myself, thinking about her texts yesterday.

The whole Ms. Taylor thing really got to her. She was trying so hard to sound casual, but I could practically see the pout on her face through the screen.

A small smile creeps onto my lips. I mutter under my breath, just loud enough for no one to hear,"My girlfriend is so jealous."

God, it's adorable.

I take another sip of my coffee, smirking to myself, before fate blesses me. Because just then, I spot her.

Yoko, walking into the breakfast lounge with Ink, Marissa, and Big in tow. And just like that—my entire morning gets better.

She looks so sleepy, rubbing her eyes slightly as she trudges in, her oversized sweater practically swallowing her, hair still slightly messy from bed.

I don't think she even knows how effortlessly pretty she is.

Our eyes meet. For a fleeting moment, I forget about the entire school trip.

But then, oh. I see the exact moment she notices Ms. Taylor standing beside me.

Her gaze sharpens. Her lips press into a thin line. Her entire face says nope before she deliberately looks away.

I suppress my laughter.

Oh, darling.

Yoko is so jealous. And it's the best thing I've ever seen.

I hide my smirk behind my coffee mug, pretending to be fully invested in Ms. Taylor's endless itinerary breakdown.

Meanwhile, Yoko? She's glaring at her food choices at the buffet table like they personally offended her. I swear, I can feel the heat of her silent sulking from across the room.

Yup. Today just got interesting.

But Ms. Taylor is still talking.

I finished my breakfast ten minutes ago. I've had my coffee. I've listened to way too much information about our already pre-planned itinerary.

And yet, she's still going.

Why? What fuels this woman? I glance at my watch. Then at the door. Then at Ms. Taylor's mouth, which is still moving.

And then, finally, I make a decision. I interrupt her.

"Right," I say, standing up abruptly, smoothing out my trench coat like I definitely wasn't just plotting my escape for the last five minutes. "Well, I should get to the lobby. Students will be gathering soon."

Ms. Taylor blinks, mid-sentence. "Oh! But I was just about to—"

"Yes, yes," I say quickly, already sidestepping past her chair. "Sounds great, can't wait, see you in a bit."

And then I bolt. Well, gracefully, of course because I am nothing if not poised and elegant in my well-calculated escape from the clutches of endless conversation.

By the time I reach the lobby, the air feels cleaner. Quieter. Peaceful.

I inhale, taking in my freedom, and tuck my hands into my coat pockets, glancing around as students start trickling in. And then, as if the universe is rewarding me for my great escape, I spot her.

Yoko.

Walking toward the gathering crowd, still looking a little sleepy, her lips slightly parted as she stifles a yawn.

Her sweater is oversized, the sleeves covering half her hands as she shoves them into her pockets. Her hair is tousled, like she barely ran a brush through it. And she looks so effortlessly beautiful I have to resist the urge to walk straight to her and tuck her against me.

Instead, I settle for something safer. Watching her. Admiring her.

She hasn't noticed me yet. I smirk to myself, tilting my head slightly, drinking in the sight of her. Then, suddenly—her eyes meet mine.

A brief moment of recognition flickers across her face. And then—nothing.

She just casually looks away like I don't exist. Like I am not her girlfriend. Like she isn't still pouting over Ms. Taylor.

I grin.

Oh, Yoko. You are so obvious.

I cross my arms, watching her subtly shift her attention anywhere but in my direction. She is fully committing to the ignoring-my-girlfriend-in-public act. It's adorable. And also? I love this game.

Once everyone is gathered, Ms. Taylor–of course–takes center stage, clearing her throat to address the students. "Alright, everyone! Listen up!"

I barely listen.

Because, while she rattles off our itinerary which I already know, I am far too occupied looking at Yoko.

She's standing with Ink, Big, and Marissa, looking like she's trying to focus, but every few seconds, she subtly steals a glance at me.

Like she's testing the waters. Like she's wondering if I'm still watching her.

I am. I absolutely am. I slip my hands into my pockets, tilting my head just slightly, watching as she immediately looks away again.

Busted, darling.

I chuckle to myself, turning my attention just enough back to Ms. Taylor as she finally wraps up her long-winded announcement.

"Let's all head to the bus, everyone! First stop, The Writers' Museum!"

There's a mix of excitement from Marissa and exhaustion from half the student population, but eventually, everyone starts moving toward the buses.

I slip on my sunglasses as I walk toward the bus, soaking in the cool Edinburgh air, feeling unreasonably pleased with myself.

Yoko is jealous. She's so jealous. And I am enjoying every second of it.

Once we board, I take my usual chaperone seat at the front, sliding my shades on fully as I stretch my legs out slightly. As the students shuffle into their seats, I catch one last glance of Yoko slipping into a row with Ink.

She's still playing it cool, acting like she totally didn't spend all morning avoiding my eyes in a dramatic display of fake indifference. And yet? As the bus starts rolling, I catch her sneaking another glance my way.

I smirk.

Oh, Yoko.

This trip is going to be so fun.

The moment we step off the bus and I lay eyes on The Writers' Museum, something inside me clicks.

It's stunning.

A historic, sandstone-bricked dream, tucked away in a quiet corner of Edinburgh's Old Town. The kind of place where time feels slower, where the walls hum with the ghosts of literary legends—Burns, Stevenson, Scott.

I take a deep breath, letting it settle in me. I lived in this city for years.

And yet? I never came here. Not even once. I exhale sharply, mildly horrified at myself. I had all this history right under my nose—and I never visited?!

What the hell was I doing back then? Oh. Right. I was suffering in university. I close my eyes briefly, the flashbacks hitting me like an emotional truck.

Engfa. Law classes. Engfa dragging me into her law school drama. Endless assignments. Engfa dramatically reading out legal cases like they were Shakespearean tragedies while I tried to finish my literature essays at 3 AM.

I open my eyes again, sighing. "Goddamn it, Engfa," I mutter under my breath.

If she hadn't been throwing her entire existence into law school, I might've actually had the time to explore Edinburgh properly.

But no. Instead of soaking in literary history, I was dragged into the dark, sleepless hellscape of law school study sessions. No wonder I blocked out half my university years.

I shake my head, forcing myself to refocus. This is not the time for traumatic student flashbacks.

I'm here now. And I am finally going to enjoy this place properly.

Ms. Taylor clears her throat loudly, gathering everyone's attention. "Alright, everyone! Take your time exploring, but make sure to gather back here in an hour!"

There's a general murmur of acknowledgment, and the students start dispersing. I immediately slip away from the crowd, heading toward the entrance, my fingers brushing against the old stone walls as I walk in.

The air inside smells exactly how a literary museum should—old books, aged parchment, the scent of words long since written but never forgotten.

I inhale deeply.

This is heaven.

As I move through the exhibits, my eyes scan every intricate display—original manuscripts, portraits of writers whose words shaped entire generations, antique writing desks where great minds once sat and poured their souls into ink and paper.

I slow my steps, taking my time, reading every inscription, every framed letter, every preserved artifact.

For the first time in a long time, I feel like a literature student again, not just a teacher. No assignments to grade. No lesson plans to prepare. Just me and the words of genius minds that came before me.

I find myself standing in front of a handwritten letter by Robert Burns, carefully preserved behind glass.

I almost reach out to touch it, before catching myself. That would be wildly inappropriate, Faye, I scold internally.

Instead, I just stare, my mind drifting to thoughts of Yoko.

She'd love this.

Well—at least, she'd love some of it. She'd also probably be sulking somewhere right now, still jealous over Ms. Taylor.

I smirk slightly, glancing over my shoulder. Sure enough, in the distance, I spot her and her friends.

Yoko is casually walking around, pretending to be fully engaged in the exhibits, but I know her. She's stealing glances at me, trying way too hard to look uninterested.

I press my lips together, amused beyond words.

My girlfriend is adorably jealous.

I'm still wandering, still soaking in every literary artifact like I'm trying to absorb history through osmosis, when something catches my eye. Or rather, someone.

Yoko.

Breaking away from her friends. Heading toward the restrooms. Alone. I smirk.

Oh, darling. You just handed me the perfect opportunity.

I casually shift my stance, glancing around. The students are all occupied, still admiring exhibits or pretending to care for the sake of participation marks. Ms. Taylor is nowhere near me so, thank God.

And Yoko? She's completely unaware.

I wait a few seconds before slipping away, trailing behind her with well-practiced nonchalance.

Totally innocent. Just a teacher, making sure her student doesn't get lost in the museum. Nothing suspicious at all.

The restroom is empty. Perfect. I lean against the sink, crossing my arms, waiting.

A minute later, the door opens, and Yoko steps out of a stall, mid-yawn. She doesn't notice me at first. And then—

"Oh, fuck—" She jumps so violently she almost slams back into the stall door.

I grin, tilting my head. "Well, hello to you too, darling."

Her eyes go wide. "What the—what are you doing here?"

I take a slow, deliberate step forward. She takes an instinctive step back.

"Oh, you know," I murmur, voice laced with amusement. "Just checking in on my girlfriend. The one who's definitely not sulking over a certain Ms. Taylor."

Her entire face scrunches. "I'm not sulking."

"Oh, really?" I take another step. She takes another step back. "So you weren't glaring at me during breakfast?"

"No."

"You weren't deliberately avoiding eye contact?"

"Nope."

"You definitely weren't shooting daggers at me on the bus?"

"Absolutely not."

I hum, pretending to consider this. "Hmm."

Then, before she can react, I grab her wrist, spin her effortlessly around, and press her firmly against the restroom wall. Her breath hitches. I brace one hand beside her head, caging her in. The other? Finds her waist.

Her pulse jumps beneath my fingertips. She blushes.

"Oh," I tease, leaning in just enough that our lips are a breath apart. "Then I suppose I imagined all of it?"

Yoko swallows. I feel her hands twitch at her sides, like she doesn't know whether to push me away or pull me closer.

"I—" She hesitates, then, stubbornly, "Yes."

I chuckle softly, my breath grazing her lips. "You're adorable when you lie."

She glares and I grin harder. She looks so flustered—lips slightly parted, cheeks burning, trying so desperately to keep up her facade.

God, she's beautiful.

And I can't help myself. I close the space between us, capturing her lips in a slow, teasing kiss.

She melts instantly.

Her hands finally react, one fisting into the fabric of my coat, the other sliding up my shoulder, gripping tightly as she presses into me. I smirk against her mouth, tilting my head to deepen the kiss, swallowing the soft sigh she lets out.

Sweet. Addictive. Completely, undeniably mine.

After a long, lingering moment, I pull back slightly, brushing my nose against hers. "Not sulking, huh?" I whisper.

She huffs, avoiding my gaze, still so obviously flustered.

I smile. Then, gently, I run my thumb across her cheek. "Darling," I murmur, voice softer now. "You know I only have eyes for you, right?"

She hesitates. Then, finally, she looks at me and nods.

I press another kiss to her lips, just a quick one this time. "Good," I whisper. "Now, let's get out of here before someone catches us and I lose my job."

She snorts, rolling her eyes, but I can see it, that tiny, smitten smile she's trying so hard to hide.

My heart swells.

God, I love her.

After Yoko exits, I wait. Leaning casually against the restroom sink, checking my nails, giving Yoko a good head start before I make my exit.

Because the last thing I need is to walk out right after her and make it painfully obvious that we were doing less-than-appropriate activities in a public museum restroom.

I give it a solid three minutes—for good measure. Then, once I'm certain the coast is clear, I slip out, adjusting my coat like I just innocently went to the bathroom and absolutely did not just kiss my girlfriend senseless against the wall.

I glide back into the main exhibition space. Cool. Collected. Professional.

And then, I hear them.

"Oh my God," Marissa cackles, not even trying to be subtle. "Why is your face so red, Yoko? You look completely flustered."

I bite back a smirk.

"Jet lag," Yoko replies immediately, too fast, too stiff. "It's so hot in here, right? Don't you think it's hot?"

"Hot?" Big repeats, deadpan. "Dude, it's literally freezing."

I almost lose it.

Marissa narrows her eyes suspiciously. "Wait. Where did you just go?"

Yoko stammers. I slowly turn my head, just in time to see Yoko struggling for an answer. Then, she blurts out the worst possible excuse ever. "The... lighting."

The lighting?

What.

I swallow a laugh, because what the hell is she talking about?

Big furrows his brows. "The lighting?"

"Y-yeah," Yoko stammers. "I just—I was looking at the exhibits, and the lighting was, uh... harsh."

"Harsh?" Marissa repeats, now fully entertained.

"Yeah. Like, um, artificial light—"

"You were in the bathroom."

Yoko visibly chokes. "Uh—"

I cannot believe what I'm witnessing. I almost want to go rescue her. But then, I catch Ink's expression.

She's standing slightly to the side, arms crossed, one brow raised, watching all of this unfold with pure amusement. And then, she glances at me and smirks.

A knowing smirk. A I-totally-know-what-you-did smirk.

I blink. Then, quickly school my expression, nodding ever so slightly like, Yes. I know you know. No, we're not discussing this.

Ink just grins harder.

Damn it.

I gracefully escape the scene, pretending I absolutely did not hear anything, and continue my tour around the museum, half appreciating the exhibits, half thinking about how cute Yoko looks when she panics.

By the time I loop back around, Ms. Taylor is calling everyone to gather. "Alright, everyone! Time to head back to the bus!"

There's a collective groan from the students, but eventually, they all shuffle towards the exit. I follow, walking at my own pace, sliding on my sunglasses as we step outside into the cool Edinburgh air.

Yoko is already on the bus, sitting with Ink. I make my way to the front, settling into my own seat, feeling entirely too pleased with myself.

I glance toward Yoko one last time. She's pointedly avoiding my gaze.

After a short ride on the road filled with endless teeangers chatter, we reach our next stop.

The moment I step off the bus and lay eyes on the storefront, I feel it. That thrill, that shiver of excitement that only comes with knowing I'm about to step into literary heaven.

Armchair Books.

The love of my book-hoarding life. A secondhand bookstore, yet it holds more magic than any pristine, overpriced chain could ever dream of.

The wooden sign, aged but charming, hangs above the door, welcoming readers like an old friend. The windows are fogged slightly from the chill, showcasing stacks of books piled in chaotic harmony—no real organization, just pure, unfiltered temptation.

I love it here.

Every time I've been to this place, I have never walked out empty-handed. Not once. It's the kind of place that pulls you in and refuses to let you leave until you've spent at least half your monthly budget on books you absolutely do not have space for but will buy anyway.

And I know this because it definitely happened before.

Many times.

Flashback: University days

I can still hear Engfa's voice, haunting my memories like a financially responsible ghost.

"Oh my God, Faye, are you kidding me?" She gaped at me, arms crossed, staring in horror at my ridiculously large stack of books.

I stood in the middle of Armchair Books, unbothered, flipping through a first-edition poetry collection.

"Do you really need that many?" she huffed, exasperated. "How do you even have space in your apartment?"

I hummed. "I don't."

"So why—"

"Engfa," I said, placing a hand on her shoulder, looking at her dead in the eyes. "It's not about space."

She blinked.

"It's about love."

Engfa visibly held back the urge to strangle me.

I ignored her and bought everything.

Back in present day, I sigh deeply, staring at the entrance of Armchair Books like I'm about to reunite with a long-lost lover.

Ms. Taylor claps her hands, snapping me back to reality. "Alright, everyone! You have an hour to browse, but please—don't get lost among the shelves."

I raise an eyebrow.

That's... an impossible request. People live in this bookstore. If someone gets lost, we just accept that they now belong to the books.

Ms. Taylor continues, giving the students a general free pass to do whatever they want—so long as they behave–which is funny, because they never do.

I don't listen. Because I am ready. I take my first step forward, mentally preparing myself to control my spending habits.

I will not buy twenty books today. I will not buy twenty books today. I will not—

"Oh! Ms. Peraya!"

Oh, for fuck's sake.

I pause, sighing through my nose, turning toward the voice.

Jonathan.

Of course. He practically bounces toward me, holding his phone like he's about to conduct a full-on book interview. "I need your help," he announces dramatically.

I blink at him. "...With?"

He gestures wildly. "Books."

I blink again. "We're inside a bookstore, Jonathan."

"Exactly!" he exclaims. "I don't know what to get!"

Oh my God.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. "What do you like to read?"

"Uh." He pauses. "Do you have a list of recommendations?"

My eye twitches. A list? Of recommendations? Does he realize he just unlocked the most dangerous side of me?

I take a deep breath. Control yourself, Faye. Do not overwhelm him. Do not go full literary nerd. Do not—

"Okay," I exhale. "Start with classic literature. You can't go wrong with Fitzgerald. The Great Gatsby is a staple."

Jonathan nods eagerly, typing into his phone.

"Also—if you want philosophical introspection, go for Camus. The Stranger is an essential existential crisis in book form."

More typing.

"And if you like emotionally devastating poetry—"

"Oh." He looks up. "No, I don't want poetry."

I pause, then stare at him and then I squint. "...What do you mean?"

"I don't really get poetry."

I stare harder. "What."

"It's just..." He shrugs. "A bit... confusing?"

I exhale sharply, pressing a hand to my chest. "Jonathan. That is the most offensive thing you've ever said to me."

He looks genuinely alarmed. "I—what?"

"Confusing?" I repeat, dramatically distressed. "Poetry is the soul of language. It is the purest form of written emotion. It is—"

"Oh God," he mutters, eyes widening in regret. "Okay, I take it back—"

But it's too late. I go full literature teacher mode, ranting about symbolism, rhythm, and the divine art of metaphor. By the time I finish, Jonathan looks like he needs to lie down.

"Okay," he wheezes. "I'll get a poetry book. Jeez."

I smile. "Good choice."

He stares at me like I'm insane. Then sighs, defeated, and finally walks inside.

I smirk. Mission accomplished.

Now, time to go bankrupt in a bookstore.

I take my first step into Armchair Books, and immediately feel my self-control crumble into dust.

"I am not buying anything today." That is the mantra I keep repeating in my head as I weave through the overflowing bookshelves, brushing my fingertips against the well-worn spines of literary treasures.

I will not make the same mistake as university Faye. I will not—

Oh, fuck, is that a first edition?

I freeze, hand hovering over the gorgeous, vintage-bound copy of Wuthering Heights. The pages look like they have been kissed by time itself, edges slightly yellowed, cover smooth but perfectly aged—

No.

I rip my hand back like the book just tried to bite me. I do not need another copy of Wuthering Heights. I already own, what—three? Or is it four?

I squint at it. It's so pretty.

No, Faye. You have bills to pay. You have liabilities. You have responsibilities. Be strong.

I shake my head, sighing, and step away. But then—

Oh God, is that a signed poetry collection?

I groan internally, gripping my coat tighter as I wander deeper into the shop, fighting my very soul's desire to walk out of here financially destroyed but spiritually enriched.

Stay strong, Peraya. Stay—

"Having fun?"

I whirl around so fast I almost knock over an entire stack of books.

And there she is.

Yoko.

Leaning against a bookshelf, arms crossed, watching me with far too much amusement. My eyes flick over her—casual sweater, jeans hugging her frame, that easy smirk playing on her lips. My weakness in human form.

I clear my throat. "Of course."

"Yeah?" she steps closer, eyes gleaming. "Looks like you're suffering."

I scoff, turning away dramatically to focus on another shelf. "I am not suffering. I'm simply... exercising restraint."

A low hum comes from behind me. "Restraint, huh?"

Something about her tone makes the hairs on the back of my neck rise. I glance over my shoulder. She's way too close now.

My eyes narrow slightly. "What are you up to?"

Yoko tilts her head, all faux innocence, but her eyes? Her eyes are absolutely plotting my downfall. She takes a slow step forward, voice lower now.

"You know..." She pauses deliberately, fingers grazing over a book on the shelf, before looking back at me. "You're really sexy when you try to hold back."

I—

What.

My brain stops functioning for a second.

Did she just—

My mouth opens, but absolutely no words come out.

And Yoko? She just smirks.

Oh, she is playing dirty.

"Hmm," she murmurs, stepping even closer, voice all velvet and amusement. "It makes me wonder..."

Her gaze drops, just for a fraction of a second, flickering over me like she's considering something deliciously sinful. I swallow hard.

"...What would happen," she continues, voice silky smooth, "if I pushed you just a little more?"

I forget how to breathe. My entire body tenses, heat crawling up my neck, my grip on my coat tightening instinctively. Yoko sees it and she grins. A slow, teasing, absolutely deadly grin.

Then, she leans up, just slightly, lips brushing dangerously close to my ear. "You should buy the book," she whispers.

And then? She walks away.

Just like that.

Just saunters off—like she didn't just ruin me completely, like she didn't just set my entire nervous system on fire, like she didn't just completely derail my existence in the middle of a fucking bookstore.

I blink rapidly, trying to regain some sense of composure.

What the actual fuck just happened?

I turn slightly, watching her disappear into another aisle, my entire body still tingling from the stupidly seductive stunt she just pulled. I exhale sharply. Then, before I can even stop myself, I reach back, and grab the damn book.

After an hour, I step out of Armchair Books with an embarrassingly large bag of books, my bank account crying and my self-control completely obliterated.

Fuck.

I stare at my purchases, feeling both elated and deeply, deeply ashamed.

How did this happen? I swore I wouldn't buy anything. I literally walked in chanting that mantra. And yet, here I am. Holding enough literature to build a fortress. My wallet is screaming. My soul is thriving.

"Shit," I mutter under my breath, hugging the bag closer as I follow the students toward the bus.

I try to comfort myself. Maybe, maybe I needed these books.

Yeah, totally.

Maybe it was a necessary expense. Maybe it's an investment. For my intellectual growth. For future poetry inspiration. For... For...

Oh, who the fuck am I kidding?

Engfa is going to kill me if she ever finds out. "You spent how much on books?" I can already hear her voice in my head, horrified, betrayed.

I shake my head. It's fine. She's not here.

She'll never know.

I clutch my books closer like a guilty criminal and climb onto the bus, settling into my seat near the front.

The bus rumbles forward, heading toward our lunch destination—a charming restaurant in the city with a stunning rooftop dining area.

Finally, a place with lifts, because if I have to climb another ridiculous flight of stairs, I will simply collapse in dramatic despair.

I ignore the chatter around me, completely immersing myself in my bag of literary treasure. A signed poetry collection. A first edition of Wuthering Heights. A rare anthology that I absolutely did not need but will cherish like my firstborn.

I slip one book out, flipping through the pages, the faint scent of aged paper and ink filling my senses.

God, this is pure happiness.

I rest my elbow against the window, absorbing the words before me, the gentle sway of the bus making the moment almost cinematic.

I sigh, content. Then, I feel eyes on me.

I glance up, peeking discreetly over my book and my gaze collides with Yoko's.

Two rows behind me. Staring. Watching me way too intently. I raise an eyebrow. She doesn't look away. She just smirks. A slow, knowing, I-won-this-round smirk. And then, she mimics turning a page. I narrow my eyes immediately.

Oh, she thinks she's so clever, doesn't she? She thinks she can just tease me senseless in a bookstore, leave me financially ruined, and get away with it?

I close my book with a soft thud, tilting my head ever so slightly.

Fine, darling. Game on.

I watch as her smirk falters just a little—like she suddenly remembers exactly who she's dealing with. I shoot her a challenging look, a silent promise that she's in for hell later.

Her cheeks darken slightly. She looks away.

I grin.

Satisfied, I reopen my book, completely victorious, and return to my poetry.

We pull up to The Lookout by Gardener's Cottage, a charming rooftop restaurant overlooking Edinburgh, with stunning views of the city skyline.

Most importantly? It has a lift.

Bless this merciful establishment.

After climbing enough stairs to traumatize me for life, I refuse to dine anywhere that requires an unnecessary workout.

The students shuffle inside, filling the restaurant with the usual chaotic energy, and I just mentally brace myself, following behind at a respectable pace.

We're led to our seats, long tables stretching across the dining space, and before I can even react, I somehow—somehow—end up sitting right beside Yoko.

What. The. Hell.

I flick a glance at her, she's playing it cool, but I can see the slight stiffening of her shoulders, the way her fingers grip her napkin just a little tighter.

Oh. Oh, this is perfect.

Lunch is served, and the chattering begins immediately.

Yoko's friends—Marissa, Ink, and Big—are in full storytelling mode, rehashing everything that's happened since morning.

And by rehashing, I mean dramatically recreating moments like they're performing at the fucking Globe Theatre.

"Oh my God," Marissa exclaims between bites, pointing at Big with her fork. "Tell me why Jonathan asked you for book recommendations and you just gave him a random title?"

Big shrugs, unfazed. "I panicked."

"You told him to read Moby-Dick," Ink deadpans.

"Yeah, so?"

"Big," Yoko sighs. "Big."

"What?" he defends. "It's a classic!"

"HE'S GONNA HATE IT!" Marissa howls.

Ink leans in. "You do realize he's the same guy who said poetry confuses him, right?"

Big blinks. "Oh."

"Oh?" Yoko repeats, visibly distressed. "Big, you just ruined his faith in literature."

I press my fist against my mouth to stifle a laugh. This is too entertaining. I take a sip of my water, quietly enjoying the chaos, watching Yoko in particular.

She's so animated, so expressive when she's with them. And she hasn't noticed. She hasn't noticed that I've been silently planning her payback.

Time for a little revenge, darling.

I casually rest my hand on my lap. Then, I slide it under the table and place it firmly on Yoko's thigh. Beneath the fabric of her jeans, I feel the way her entire body freezes.

I bite the inside of my cheek, keeping my expression innocent, sipping my water like I'm the picture of professionalism.

Yoko, however? She chokes on her drink.

Ink pats her back, concerned. "You okay?"

"Yep," Yoko squeaks, clearing her throat, avoiding my gaze. "Fine. Totally fine."

I press my fingers slightly, just enough to make her squirm. Yoko stiffens. Her hand flies under the table, grabbing my wrist in a silent warning.

Oh, but darling... you started this game.

I slowly—deliberately—trace tiny circles against her inner thigh.

A soft, almost imperceptible shudder runs through her. I smirk, casually picking at my meal, looking like I'm completely focused on my food. Yoko? She's malfunctioning.

Ink nudges her. "You're quiet. What's up?"

"Nothing," Yoko rushes out, voice slightly strained.

Marissa eyes her suspiciously. "Are you sick? You look—"

Yoko grips my wrist harder, warning me but I slide my hand higher.

Yoko slams her fork down onto her plate. Everyone stares at her. I nearly laugh out loud. She sends me a murderous side glance, but I just bat my lashes innocently, taking another sip of water.

"You okay there?" Big asks.

"Yep," Yoko grits out. "Just... remembered something."

Marissa blinks. "You okay?"

Yoko shoves food into her mouth, just to avoid speaking. I finally pull my hand away, satisfied. She exhales so sharply it's hilarious.

Ink, who has been watching way too closely, smirks behind her drink. Yoko doesn't meet my gaze for the rest of lunch. I just smile, completely victorious.

Game, set, match.

After lunch, we are all getting ready to head to our last place to check out today, The University of Edinburgh.

I step into the lift first, the cool air-conditioned space a blessed contrast to the warmth of the crowded restaurant.

One by one, the students pile in, shuffling into whatever tight spaces they can fit themselves into. I watch with mild amusement as they squeeze together, shoulders bumping, impatient murmurs rising as the last few people push their way inside.

And then, of course. Of course. Yoko ends up right beside me. Pressed so damn close, her shoulder brushing against mine, her warmth seeping through my coat.

The lift doors slide shut, there's no room to move, no space to breathe properly. And for some stupid reason, all I can think about is—I could kiss her right now and literally no one would see.

The thought rushes through me so fast, so recklessly, that I almost choke on it. I force myself to exhale steadily, keeping my face composed, keeping my hands to myself for exactly ten seconds.

And then, my dear sweet darling girlfriend makes the mistake of shifting slightly, her back pressing more firmly against my arm.

And my self-control snaps like a cheap rubber band.

Slowly, so slowly it's almost imperceptible, I let my hand drop from my side and trail it toward her waist. Just a ghost of a touch at first. A soft graze over the fabric of her sweater.

Nothing too obvious. Nothing too bold. Not yet.

But I feel it immediately—the way her muscles tense, her body going completely still beside me.

I bite back a smirk.

Carefully—so deliberately—I slip my fingers beneath her sweater, my fingertips brushing against the bare, warm skin of her waist.

Yoko inhales sharply. My hand rests there, unmoving. Her breathing changes, just a little, just enough for me to hear it. To feel it.

The students around us chatter away, blissfully unaware.

The lift descends slowly and I let my fingers slide lower. Yoko's shoulders twitch slightly, but she doesn't stop me. Doesn't pull away.

I know she wants to. Knows she should. But she doesn't.

Instead, she tilts her head slightly, just enough for me to catch the side of her face, her expression strained but composed, her lips pressed together in what I know is her attempt to not react.

I lean in, just barely, my breath fanning against her ear. "You're not stopping me," I whisper, my voice low, smooth, teasing.

I feel her shudder.

Victory.

My fingers trace tiny, torturously slow circles against her skin, my touch featherlight, just enough to make her squirm, but not enough for anyone to notice.

Yoko grips the railing of the lift–tight. Like she's physically restraining herself from reacting.

I smirk against her ear. "Poor thing," I murmur softly.

Yoko clenches her jaw. I feel it, the subtle tension in her body, the way her fingers dig into the railing, the way her breath hitches ever so slightly.

And then, just to ruin her completely, just because I can, I let my thumb graze the sensitive dip of her hipbone.

She gasps quietly—a barely-there sound—but I hear it. I feel it and I win.

The lift dings. The doors slide open. And Yoko practically bolts out before anyone else moves.

Ink barely has time to blink. "Yo—where the hell are you going?"

"FRESH AIR, I NEED AIR."

She marches off, leaving everyone confused. I step out calmly, my posture completely relaxed, my expression a picture of innocence.

Ink glances at me, eyes narrowing suspiciously. I just smile. She scoffs, shaking her head.

I glance ahead, Yoko is walking fast, hands clutching her sweater, face slightly pink. I chuckle under my breath.

She felt every second of that. Good. Maybe next time, she'll think twice before flirting with me in a bookstore.

The bus hums along the cobbled streets, weaving through Edinburgh's familiar, breathtaking landscape, and I find myself leaning against the window, watching as the city unfolds before me.

It's the same as I remember—grand, historic, poetic in every corner. Grey stone buildings standing timelessly, their facades kissed by centuries of literary ghosts and academic ambition.

It's nostalgic. It's home. It's also giving me emotional whiplash.

I can almost see my past self rushing down these streets, juggling a stack of books, a half-drunk cup of coffee, and the crippling anxiety of an imminent essay deadline.

I can almost hear Engfa's voice, dramatically whining about how she regrets every life choice that led her to Law School while I, a Literature student, simply sat back and watched her suffer.

And of course, of course—I can almost feel the presence of Allison, lurking like a fucking bad omen in the corridors of my memory.

I exhale slowly, dragging my attention back to the present, as Ms Taylor begins addressing the students.

"Alright, everyone, listen up!" Her voice cuts through the usual student chatter, and reluctantly, I tune in. "When we arrive at the University of Edinburgh," she begins, her enthusiasm at an unnecessary volume, "we will be having a guided tour with the Dean of the Literature Faculty."

I suppress a groan.

Oh. Oh, I know that guy. Professor Calloway. He's brilliant, charming, and knows way too much about my life.

"After that," Ms Taylor continues, "we'll be heading over to the Edinburgh College of Art, where you'll get to explore their facilities, learn about their programs, and for those of you considering this university, you'll have a chance to speak with faculty members about admissions."

A wave of mild interest ripples through the students.

I glance over at Yoko, who is listening with a subtle intensity, fingers tapping against her knee. I have to stop myself from smiling. I know that look.

It's the 'I'm pretending to be cool but internally, I'm calculating every possible future scenario in my head' look.

She catches me staring. Her eyes narrow slightly, as if she knows what I'm thinking. I just wink at her. She immediately looks away.

Ms Taylor continues rambling.

I let my gaze drift back out the window, watching as we get closer and closer to the place that shaped me, the place that ruined me, the place that saved me.

The bus finally pulls up to the university. And the second I step off, memories slam into me like a brick wall.

I see it all at once.

The towering stone buildings, the same ones I used to admire while questioning my sanity. The quad, where I spent hours sprawled on the grass, highlighting poetry until my eyes bled. The library, where I probably aged ten years trying to finish my dissertation.

And then, of course, The Faculty of Literature building.

Where I met Allison. Where I fell. Where I crashed and burned.

Fuck.

I square my shoulders, shoving the intrusive thoughts aside. I am not here to relive my romantic failures. I am here as a teacher, as a chaperone, as a fully functioning adult who has totally moved past her ridiculous academic heartbreak.

Totally. Absolutely. One hundred percent.

...Right?

"Oh my God." Engfa's voice rings loud and clear in my memory. "Faye, if you buy one more book, I am physically throwing you into the North Sea."

I blink.

And suddenly, I am transported back to my university days, standing in a bookstore across the street, arms full of books, while Engfa looked at me like she was rethinking our entire friendship.

I can still hear her exasperated sigh, still see her dramatic eye-roll, still remember her dragging me out before I could financially ruin myself further.

I smile faintly, shaking my head.

I miss that idiot.

"Ms Peraya?"

I snap back to reality, turning to find Professor Calloway approaching with a warm smile.

"Prof," I greet, offering a polite nod. "It's been a while."

"Indeed it has," he chuckles. "I see you've survived the transition from student to educator."

"Barely."

He laughs, then gestures toward the students. "Shall we get started?"

I glance at Yoko, who is watching me carefully. I flash her a small smirk, just enough to say Don't worry, I'm still me.

Then, I step forward, back into my past, with my future watching me from a few steps behind.

The tour begins.

I walk half a step behind the students, letting Professor Calloway take the lead as he effortlessly commands attention.

He guides them through the grand stone hallways, speaking with his usual booming enthusiasm, weaving history, literary prestige, and a touch of academic intimidation into his words.

I remember this. I remember standing in this very corridor, not as a teacher, but as a wide-eyed student, clutching my books to my chest, hoping to absorb every bit of wisdom these walls had to offer.

It feels... strange. Like stepping into an old photograph—familiar, but slightly out of focus.

I shake the thought away, listening as Calloway gestures toward the arched stained-glass windows lining the hallway.

"Now," Calloway says, turning to the students, "many brilliant minds have walked through these doors."

A pause. A dramatic glance toward me. And I immediately know where this is going. He grins. Oh no. I brace myself.

"Ms Peraya," he announces, "was one of our most dedicated literature students."

I fight the urge to physically recoil. The students perk up.

Oh, great. Just what I needed—Calloway boosting my reputation like I'm some legendary academic warrior.

Yoko, I notice, is fully focused on me, eyes flickering with a mix of intrigue and amusement. Of course she is.

I feel heat crawl up my neck.

"I'm sure your teacher has already told you about her time here," Calloway continues, "but let me tell you—"

"Professor," I cut in, my voice measured, calm, completely uninterested in whatever story he's about to share.

He grins wider. "Your literature teacher has always been like this," he tells the students. "Cool, collected, impossible to ruffle."

I hear a suppressed laugh. I don't need to look to know it's Yoko. Ink, standing beside her, nudges her knowingly.

"Oh, we know," Ink murmurs.

I shoot her a look. She just smirks.

We move on.

The students chatter amongst themselves, some still curiously glancing at me, as if they've unlocked some hidden lore about their teacher.

I ignore them.

Instead, I let my eyes wander—taking in the high ceilings, the gothic archways, the familiar scent of old books and academia. It's strange, being back.

Some things have changed—new signage, new furniture, newer students filling the space I once occupied—But some things remain exactly the same.

The same quiet hum of knowledge in the air. The same sense of possibility and purpose wrapped in every hallway. For a moment—just a brief moment—I let myself remember.

I remember walking these halls with Engfa, stealing coffee breaks between our lectures. I remember late nights in the library, drowning in essays and caffeine, debating poetry like it was the only thing that mattered in the world.

I remember Allison. Her voice. Her touch. Her betrayal. A sour taste lingers in my mouth. I exhale slowly, grounding myself back to the present.

I glance ahead, Yoko is listening to Calloway speak, but I see it. The way she subtly glances back at me, as if checking in. As if she knows that this place holds ghosts for me.

I give her the smallest smile, a silent reassurance. She smiles back. And just like that, the heaviness in my chest eases.

We make our way toward ECA, the Edinburgh College of Art, crossing into a part of the university that feels more experimental, more alive with creative energy.

Students here walk with paint-streaked hands, their clothes messy but effortlessly stylish, their backpacks overflowing with sketchbooks and sculptures-in-progress.

The space is lively, chaotic in the best way, walls adorned with artwork from past and present students, sculptures standing like silent sentinels in the halls.

I always loved this part of campus. I spent too much time here, despite not being an art student.

It was Engfa, of course—dragging me to every ECA event, every gallery showcase, every "let's pretend we understand this abstract painting" moment.

I smile at the memory, just as I hear, "Faye Peraya?"

A voice I recognize. A voice that makes my head snap up immediately. A voice that belongs to—

I turn and freeze. Because there she is.

Professor Vanessa Evans.

The living, breathing embodiment of an academic hurricane. Tall—as tall as me at 175cm, but somehow always managing to look taller, thanks to the fact that she practically lives in heels.

Blue eyes—stormy, piercing, cold like she's already judging your entire existence before you even speak.

And trust me, she is.

Dressed in sleek black, as if she moonlights as a literary assassin, her sharp blazer and trousers tailored so perfectly that it almost distracts you from the fact that she's about to verbally eviscerate you in 30 seconds or less.

Her hair is flawless, as always—long light brown flowing like she stepped out of an expensive legal drama.

And that expression? That resting judgmental face? Still the same.

The woman is a menace. Professor Sass and Sadism. Professor Doom. Professor Demon. Take your pick.

A former attorney, who—for some godforsaken reason—traded the courtroom for a lecture hall, ripping apart literary arguments instead of legal cases.

And the worst part? She's brilliant at it. So brilliant that—against all odds—she somehow ended up being one of the reasons I chose to become an educator.

Goddamn it.

"Ms Peraya."

Her voice cuts through the air—smooth, refined, dripping with equal parts condescension and amusement. I stiffen instinctively. Like muscle memory. Like I'm still a student waiting for her to drag my literary analysis to hell and back.

It's been years, but somehow, she still makes me feel like I've accidentally forgotten to cite my sources.

I clear my throat. "Professor Evans."

A sharp smirk curves her lips. "Oh, please. Don't be so formal. We're both educators now, aren't we?"

I narrow my eyes. She's enjoying this.

"Yes," I say, keeping my expression neutral. "But that doesn't erase the years of academic trauma you inflicted upon me."

There's a snort from behind me. I glance over and of course, Yoko.

Standing a few feet away, pretending to be very interested in the university's architecture but obviously eavesdropping.

Her eyes are glinting with amusement. Great. Fantastic. My girlfriend is about to witness my complete academic submission to the one and only Vanessa Evans.

Professor Evans crosses her arms, tapping a perfectly manicured finger against her sleeve. "I suppose I should be flattered," she muses.

"You shouldn't," I deadpan.

A low chuckle escapes her—smooth, calculated, the same unreadable amusement I remember from all my years of enduring her lectures. Then, those sharp blue eyes scan over me, taking in my coat, my posture, my existence—like she's assessing me for errors.

"You don't seem to have completely lost your edge," she remarks, tilting her head. "You had potential. I assume you've managed to retain some of it?"

Wow. What a glowing compliment.

Yoko is fully grinning now. I want to die.

"I manage," I say, tone dry.

Professor Evans smirks, and just like that, I feel exactly like the 20-year-old student who used to sit in her class, hanging onto every intellectual beatdown she delivered.

God, I hated her. but God, I respected her so much.

She finally turns her gaze toward the students. "University trips," she muses. "A necessary evil, I suppose. But at least you're shaping the next generation of literary scholars, aren't you, Faye?"

I swallow down a retort and nod diplomatically.

Vanessa Evans taught me well. Unfortunately, too well. And I hate that she knows it.

I cross my arms, tilting my head slightly as I study Vanessa Evans, who is still looking at me like she's deciding whether I'm worth engaging with or if I should be graded and discarded.

"What are you even doing here?" I ask.

Vanessa arches a perfect brow, as if offended that I would even question her presence.

"Literature professor things," she says smoothly, waving a hand. "I can never get enough of my own field, obviously. Art exhibitions, literary discussions, academic pretentiousness—you know, our kind."

I snort.

Yeah. I get it.

The woman eats, breathes, and bathes in literature.

Even back in university, if she wasn't ripping apart our arguments on Shakespeare, she was somewhere being invited to intellectual symposiums, sipping expensive wine while effortlessly destroying someone's thesis with five well-articulated sentences.

"Right," I mutter. "That makes sense."

She tilts her head, observing me with those piercing blue eyes, and then, oh no. I see it.

That shift in her expression. That amusement curling at the corner of her mouth. That means only one thing—she's about to say something that will make my life miserable.

"So," she muses, casually glancing over my shoulder, "the girl."

I freeze.

Vanessa's eyes flicker with pure, unfiltered amusement. "She's been staring," she says, voice dripping with observational superiority. "Pretending she's not, of course, but I notice everything."

I slowly exhale. Of course she does. She's Vanessa Evans. She probably notices when the wind changes direction.

"It's just—" I start, before pausing.

Do I say it? Do I subject myself to whatever sass she's about to hurl my way?

Eh. Might as well.

I shrug. "It's my student."

A beat. A slow blink from Vanessa.

Then, I smirk, just slightly. "And my girlfriend."

Silence. For exactly two seconds.

Then, "Oh. Oh."

She laughs—a short, sharp, almost delighted sound, like she just stumbled upon a rare literary tragedy she finds incredibly entertaining. She places a hand over her chest, in mock awe. "Faye Peraya, you never fail to impress me."

I roll my eyes.

Here we go.

"Well, I suppose I should have seen it coming," Vanessa continues smoothly, tapping a finger against her chin, smirking. "You always had a way of making things unnecessarily complicated for yourself."

"I prefer 'challenging' over 'complicated'," I say dryly.

Vanessa gives me a look. "You're dating a student. In your school. On a school trip." She gestures vaguely. "That's not 'challenging', Faye. That's borderline self-sabotage."

I huff a laugh, shaking my head.

She's not wrong. Not entirely. But she also doesn't know how Yoko makes me feel.

How Yoko looks at me like I've written the world's greatest poem. How Yoko whispers my name like it's her favourite verse. How it doesn't feel wrong, not in the way it should.

But I don't say any of that because Vanessa doesn't do sentimentality.

Instead, I smirk. "Well, at least now you know I paid attention in your lectures," I say. "I learned how to make bold, disastrous literary choices."

Vanessa laughs, shaking her head, like she genuinely can't believe I'm real.

"Anyway," I say, "what's next for you? Where are you going, Professor Evans?"

She hums, eyes flickering with something unreadable. "Back to my actual home city," she says simply. "A university there is hiring me."

I raise a brow. "Going to terrorize a whole new batch of students?"

Her lips curve into a sharp, wicked smirk. "Oh, absolutely." She tilts her head, voice mocking, indulgent, cruelly amused. "I will decimate them."

I chuckle, shaking my head. "I wish you good luck."

Vanessa waves a hand dismissively. "Don't waste your prayers on me, Faye," she says.

Then, with an elegant, sassy flip of her hair—"Pray for my students." And with that, she walks away.

Like the dramatic, literary devil she is. And honestly? I wouldn't have expected anything less.

I watch as Professor Vanessa Evans strides away, her heels clicking against the stone floor like a villain leaving the scene of a perfectly executed monologue.

Students part for her like she's some mythical literary deity—or more accurately, like a storm they'd rather not get caught in.

Some things never change.

I exhale because that was... an experience. I have survived yet another encounter with Professor Doom. Barely.

I rub my temple. God, I need coffee.

Just as I'm mentally recovering, I hear a familiar voice, "Enjoying your reunion?"

I turn, and of course, there she is. Yoko, standing a few feet away, arms crossed, expression part amusement, part suspicion.

Oh no.

She definitely saw. She's definitely curious. And she's definitely not letting this go.

I clear my throat, trying to play it cool. "She was my professor," I say, casual, neutral, professional.

Yoko raises a brow. "She was more than just a professor to you."

Damn it.

I sigh, glancing around to make sure no nosy eavesdroppers are nearby before stepping closer.

"She was... an influence," I admit.

Yoko tilts her head, intrigued. "An influence?"

I nod. "Believe it or not, she's part of the reason I became a teacher."

Yoko's eyes widen slightly, and I can almost see the wheels turning in her head. Then, "Oh my God." She leans in, voice dropping to a teasing whisper. "Ms Peraya, did you have a professor crush?"

I choke. Literally. Cough once, cough twice.

Yoko grins like she just discovered buried treasure. "Oh my God," she repeats, delighted, as if she's just unlocked a secret character from my past.

I narrow my eyes. "No."

She giggles.

I glare. "Yoko."

She bites her lip, still smiling, and God help me, I can see the exact moment she decides to make my life harder.

"Professor Evans is pretty, though," she muses.

I groan.

"Yoko."

"She's really smart too."

I close my eyes, inhaling deeply. "You're insufferable."

Yoko grins, leaning up just a little closer, her voice mockingly sweet, "Ms Peraya, were you one of those students who secretly swooned over their professor—"

I shut her up with a look. A very pointed, very warning look. She laughs softly, utterly unbothered.

God, I'm in so much trouble.

We stand there for a moment—her eyes twinkling with mischief, my sanity slowly deteriorating—before she relents, nudging me lightly.

"Alright, alright," she says, still grinning. "I'll stop."

I squint suspiciously. She's lying. She'll never let this go. And I will never hear the end of it. I exhale, running a hand through my hair.

"Come on," I say, glancing toward the students gathering near the exit. "Let's go before we're the last ones on the bus."

Yoko nods, but before she moves, she lowers her voice, just for me, "Just saying, I get it. I'd have a crush on her too."

I give her a flat stare. She winks. And then she walks away, too smug for her own good. I close my eyes for a brief moment, collecting myself. Then I follow her out, praying to whoever is listening—that this conversation never resurfaces again.

(Spoiler: It will.)

I follow Yoko out of the building, the cool Edinburgh air brushing against my skin as we step toward the waiting bus.

But my mind?

Still stuck several minutes ago, standing in front of Vanessa Evans, feeling like a student all over again.

Damn her. Damn her for still having that all-knowing smirk. Damn her for somehow managing to drag me into nostalgia hell within a single conversation. And damn her even more for making me remember what it was like sitting in those lecture halls, hanging onto every razor-sharp, perfectly structured argument she threw at us.

I step onto the bus, settling into my seat, but my mind keeps drifting.

I won't lie, Vanessa terrified me as a student. Not because she was cruel—she wasn't.

But because she was brilliant. Unwavering. Intimidatingly sharp. Her lectures were lessons in both literature and survival. You either kept up, or you got destroyed. And in some twisted, masochistic way—I loved it.

Back then, we used to say Vanessa Evans never truly praised anyone. That she'd rather drop dead than give out an A too easily. That she only ever smiled when she was about to rip apart someone's thesis in front of the whole class.

She was ruthless. She was impossible. She was the kind of professor you hated at first until one day, you finally impressed her. Until one day, she smirked instead of sighed at your answer. Until one day, she nodded instead of critiqued.

And then you realized you'd die for her approval.

God, I hate that she was right about me.

The bus starts moving, and I sigh, leaning back against my seat, rubbing my temple.

"Still thinking about her?"

I glance to my right, and there's Yoko, sitting one row behind me, leaning forward with an amused smirk.

Oh for fuck's sake.

I narrow my eyes. "Don't start."

She grins. "I didn't say anything."

"You were going to."

"Maybe."

I exhale sharply, looking away. "She was just... a big influence," I mutter, more to myself than to her.

Yoko hums, tilting her head, curious, thoughtful. "Did you ever think about being an attorney instead?" she asks suddenly.

I glance at her. A fair question. After all, Vanessa had walked that path first.

I did consider it—for about five seconds—before realizing that I was, in fact, not built for law school.

I shake my head. "Nah. I loved literature too much," I admit. "Even when I was in university, I knew I didn't want to do anything else."

Yoko smiles at that. And somehow—I know she understands.

That quiet, undeniable pull toward something you love, even if the path is difficult, impractical, sometimes even outright frustrating.

She gets it. Because she feels the same way about literature. About words. About the way a poem can carve its way into your ribs and sit there for years. And somehow—I feel lighter.

The conversation drifts elsewhere after that. The students are chatting, laughing, the whole bus buzzing with energy as we head to our next destination.

I finally let my thoughts of Vanessa Evans rest.

At least for now. Because right now? I have something better to focus on.

I have Yoko and I have Edinburgh waiting for us.

The bus pulls up outside The Balmoral, its warm golden lights glowing against the Edinburgh night sky, welcoming us back after a long day of literary indulgence and student herding.

I exhale, rolling my shoulders, feeling the weight of exhaustion settle in.

It's been a day. A good day, sure. But God, these kids never run out of energy.

I follow the group inside, watching as the students split off in various directions—some heading straight for their rooms, others loitering in the lobby, debating whether they should raid the vending machine or go out for 'just a quick walk' but they won't because Ms. Taylor is already eyeing them like a hawk.

As for me? I just want a hot shower and sleep. Or so I think, until my phone buzzes.

Yoko

I miss you.

I stop mid-step.

Oh no. Oh, this girl.

I step into the lift, pressing my floor number with a sigh, already feeling the fight leaving my body. My fingers hover over the keyboard.

I should be firm. I should remind her that we agreed to keep our distance. That this is risky. That Allison is literally roaming around the same hotel. That I am, unfortunately, still her teacher for the remainder of this trip. That we have to be careful. That we—

My resolve crumbles immediately.

I type.

Faye

I know you do, baby. But we can't. :(

I hit send and immediately regret it.

The lift dings. I step out, heading to my room, already trying to shove away my thoughts before they get dangerous.

But ten seconds later, my phone buzzes again.

Yoko

It's fine.

Yoko

Just counting down the days until this trip is over so I can hug you again.

Yoko

And kiss you.

Yoko

And touch you.

Fuck. I stop in the middle of the hallway. I stare at the screen. And I know, right then, right there I am about to make a terrible decision.

A self-indulgent, reckless, absolutely-not-a-good-idea decision.

I inhale. Then exhale. Then I type.

Faye

Room 1907.

And hit send.

The moment I close my hotel room door behind me, I lean back against it, rubbing my temple.

God, I'm so weak for her.

I don't even move from my spot. I just stand there, staring at the door, waiting. Because I know her—know her so well—to know that she's already on her way.

And honestly? So am I.

I barely have time to breathe, to process, to regret my decision in full, before—

A knock. Soft. Deliberate. And way too fast for her to have hesitated even for a second.

Of course. Of course.

I press my lips together, forcing myself to stay composed, then I step forward and open the door.

Yoko stands there, hood up, hands tucked into the pocket of her sweater like she's a thief in the night–my criminal.

Her eyes flicker up to mine, dark, unreadable for a second, then her lips curve into a smug little smile. Like she knows she's won. Like she knows I was never going to say no to her.

She's right.

I sigh, giving her the most unimpressed look I can muster. "This is reckless."

Yoko shrugs, slipping into the room, not even pretending to feel guilty. "Then why did you send me your room number?"

I close the door behind her, locking it, trapped, cornered, cntirely and helplessly hers.

I turn, arms crossing. "Because I—"

Before I can finish, she steps in. Close. Too close.

The scent of her—clean, warm, so undeniably Yoko—hits me first, followed by the feeling of her fingers sliding up slowly, teasingly over my forearm, coming to a stop at my wrist.

I swallow.

Her voice drops, barely a whisper. "Because you miss me too?"

I exhale, long, slow, defeated. God, yes. I miss her. I miss her so much it aches. But I can't say that.

So instead, I let my fingers tangle with hers, let my thumb brush over the curve of her wrist, feeling the soft, steady pulse beneath her skin.

And then I do the only thing I can—I pull her into my arms.

She melts into me instantly, her arms looping around my waist, face burying into my neck—

And fuck. This. This is what I needed.

The feeling of her pressed against me, of her body fitting so perfectly into mine, of her warmth spreading through me like something vital, something I've been missing ever since this trip began.

My grip tightens. My lips brush against her temple.

She sighs, murmuring against my skin, "I missed this."

My chest clenches as I kiss her hair. "Me too, baby."

But it's not enough. It's never enough.

Not when she's here, in my arms, her breath warm against my skin, her scent filling my senses, her body pressing so intimately close to mine, not when we've spent days pretending we don't crave this.

I tilt her chin up, just enough for our eyes to meet. And for a moment, neither of us move. Neither of us speak.

The tension pulls tight, electric, suffocating. Her eyes flicker to my lips. And I can't take it anymore. I crash my mouth onto hers.

The second our lips meet, Yoko gasps softly, her fingers gripping the fabric of my shirt as she presses up against me, her body molding to mine like she was always meant to fit there.

I drink her in, the way she melts into me, the way she sighs against my lips, the way she chases after me when I pull back just to breathe.

She wants this as much as I do.

I deepen the kiss, tasting every second we've been forced to keep our distance. Her hands slide up my chest, fingers curling into my hair as she tugs me closer, like she's afraid I'll pull away again.

As if I ever could.

I back her up against the wall, hands slipping under her sweater, feeling the warmth of her bare skin beneath my fingertips. She whimpers softly, arching into my touch.

And fuck, the sound alone destroys me.

I press my forehead against hers, our breaths mingling, our chests heaving. I stare into her eyes—dark, needy, wrecked. Just like mine.

And then I whisper, voice husky, trembling, ruined for her, "I missed you."

Her breath catches. Her lips part and she pulls me back in, kissing me like she wants to devour me whole.

If I had any self-control left, I lost it the moment she walked through that door. And now? I'm done pretending.

Tonight, she's mine.

Just as much as I am hers.

NOTE FROM MEOWINGHAM: Fun Fact Friday! This chapter you have just read, contains 10,850 words (excluding this whole paragraph.) I hope you enjoyed today's chapter, and of course, some easter eggs for you—go google Yoko's birthday and look back to Faye's room number. Oh, and yes, Professor Vanessa Evans? That's definitely someone who will appear in the next novel I'm writing titled "Desiring Woman" so.. wink wonk.